Tag Archives: pilot’s wife Dubai

Hats off to DH

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A question I get asked a lot is: “So, does your husband always fly the same route?” I guess I can understand why people might think this – bus drivers, ferry operators, London underground drivers, long-distance truck drivers, mums on the school run, we all do the same route. So why not an airline pilot?

I smile and answer politely, “No, he flies to different places all the time.” He could be in New York one week, then Seoul the next, followed by London or Munich the week after. There’s a bidding system, which is too complicated to explain here, but that’s how it works. And it varies from month-to-month, too, with training, ground schools and six-monthly medicals as well.

Often, his trips take him to more than one country, so they’ll go to Sydney, then on to Auckland, or they’ll fly to Bangkok and from there onto Hong Kong. A bit like picking the children up from school, then continuing on to an after-school activity, I suppose. Or not.

Anyway, last week he was at Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi airport, preparing to fly on to Hong Kong. Picture the scene, if you will: a busy Thai airport, with nearly 16 million arrivals a year, serving a huge, cosmopolitan capital brimming with gold-spired temples, colourful markets and sà·nùk (fun).

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The crowd pleaser

The flight crew is sitting in a corner before boarding, when a Chinese lady sits herself down right next to DH and asks if it would be okay for her friend to take a photo of them. Sure, says DH, and makes her day by letting her wear his hat for the picture.

The area they’re sitting in isn’t particularly busy, so you can imagine my DH’s surprise when he looks up and sees what’s happened.

Did you guess? Yes, out of nowhere, a line has formed. A 15-deep queue of excited passengers, many of whom are probably travelling on the A380 for the first time, all wanting a photo – with THE HAT.

My DH, who’s very good-natured, obliged. Bless him! And I did have to laugh because it’s not the first time he’s caused a line: a long time ago, when we were 16, he was waiting for me at a train station, in school uniform. I arrived to find DH standing by the exit, collecting tickets. The reason? A passenger had thought he was the inspector and handed her ticket over, causing everyone getting off the train to follow suit.

Proud of you DH, for fulfilling your flying dreams – and for the fact people will actually queue for you!

You might also like: My hat trick on the airplane

The brand-new $400m airplane

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If you’re anything like me, you probably love going to car show rooms to look at the latest models, sit behind the steering wheel of cars you’ll never be able to afford and pick out which colour car you like best.

There’s something about buying a new set of wheels – even if they’ve been used already – that’s very exciting, in my opinion.

Last week, my DH took this to a whole new, stratospheric level, when he set off to Airbus’ factory in Hamburg, Germany, and returned with a brand-new, shiny $400m superjumbo.

I almost packed myself in his suitcase the day he left; I would love to nosy round the factory, and just imagine travelling back on your very own private A380 – with the whole cabin to yourself, bar a few executives and engineers also on the flight. I pictured myself relaxing in first class like a rock star, visiting the shower spa and cracking open the bottle of champagne I was sure to find.

Alas, it wasn’t to be. I enjoyed the trip vicariously via DH, who snapped some good photos, and on his return told me: “Gotta love that new airplane smell!”

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The gleaming new aircraft being prepared for take-off

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Spotted in Hamburg: This bulbous-looking plane is one of Airbus’ now-retired Super Guppies, used to transport airplane parts from 1972 to the mid-90s. They were replaced by Airbus Beluga super transporters. You didn’t know I can be a bit of a plane spotter, did you?

Dubai’s most prestigious private club

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In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m sometimes a bit jealous of my DH’s lifestyle. All those trips to exotic locations, restaurant meals that don’t deteriorate into feeding time at the zoo, sightseeing outings and hotel rooms.

He’s even picked up for work in a private car – the airline has a fleet of ‘silver dream cars’ that spirit our husbands away from it all, at any time of day or night, and deliver them home a few days later.

You get the gist. I could point out the hard parts of his job too. But I won’t. Suffice to say, if the Travel Channel is on, I’m never too surprised to hear him say, “Oh look, I was just there the other day,” or “I walked past that yesterday.”

“Really?” I’ll reply, raising my housewifely eyebrows and trying not to turn lime green with envy.

Membership of the Capital Club, which is frequented by some of the city’s top businessmen, government officials and royalty, is strictly by invitation only

Frequented by some of the city’s top businessmen, government officials and royalty – and a mum trying desperately hard to not talk too much about the children

Anyway, the other week the tables turned! I’ve been doing some work for a new client – a PR company run by an Iraqi entrepreneur, and he asked me to accompany him to a press luncheon at the Capital Club, Dubai’s premier private business club, catering to the top echelons of enterprise, finance and government.

A whole different UNIVERSE from Chuck E. Cheese’s.

A driver took us there in a corporate car; the silver-service lunch comprised three mouth-watering courses of French cuisine; I met some really nice, experienced journalists, and got to nosey round four floors of elegant lounges, ambient dining options and wood-panelled meeting rooms.

I could have settled in quite happily at the club’s outdoor shisha terrace and tent (or even in the cigar room), but it was when we were shown the boutique hotel facility that my mind really started racing. DH was safely ensconced at home with the children, and there I was, staring at a beautifully appointed, 700-square-foot bedroom, with what looked like 1,500-thread-count Egyptian comfort sheets on the bed and butler service, 24/7.

I wonder if they’d notice if I stayed, I thought. Just overnight. After all, I’m sure my invite to become a member is on the way. Must just be lost in the post.

Travel widow: The five-day trip

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Guess who?

Guess who?

I’m often asked: “Is your husband away a lot?” The truth is, he’s home a lot more than most husbands who work 9-6 plus over-time and weekends. But, of course, the nature of his job means that every time he does leave, it’s for an overseas trip of varying lengths.

His favourite jollies jaunts are to Europe – about seven hours there and back, two days away in total and a European city, such as Munich or Paris, at his disposal (what’s not to like?). I think he rather enjoys Bangkok too (not too much I hope) and, naturally, he loves returning to his home country, the States.

This week, he’s on a five-day trip to Australia and New Zealand. I’ve been with him on this one, and so I know the 14-hour journey to Sydney, the onward flight to Auckland and the jet lag are tough. But, the hardest thing, in my opinion, is the distance: it honestly feels like he’s dropped off the end of the world.

Before he left, he said to me: “Y’know, when I’m away, especially when I’m gone so far, the children just get better and better in my mind.”

“YOU WHAT?” I retorted, not sure if I’d heard him properly. I looked at him quizzically, through disbelieving eyes – but he meant it. He misses them so much that, to him, they become little angels, and not the whirling dervishes that seem to visit every time he’s gone.

So, I can’t resist, this is a day-by-day summary of not just our children’s angelic ways, but the household frustrations that he’s missing this week.

Day 1:
All is calm. This isn’t so bad, I think. The boys and I really bond when DH is away and we eat boiled eggs for dinner.

Day 2:
BB develops an ear infection, complicated by whining and exacerbated ten-fold by his noisy brother, who starts shouting erratically as though he’s got Tourette’s. We see the doctor and start antibiotics.

Day 3:
BB’s well enough for school and is all ready at 7.15am, but the bus doesn’t turn up. I phone the mum in charge and find out there’s no school. Teacher training. Sigh. (I swear, they have so many days off here that mums might as well tell themselves there’s no school, and then be pleasantly surprised when there is.)

Day 4:
The gas runs out in the middle of cooking dinner – time to call a gas delivery company (such as ‘Al Boom’ – yes, that’s its name, really!). TV stops working.

Day 5:
The boys are fighting like gerbils. They’re desperately trying to get their hands on our electronic devices. I eventually hide the iPad, and they go for my iPhone, and when I take that away too, LB grabs my Kindle like an addict and starts tapping it furiously in the hope it might have Minecraft on it (this can only end in tears). At bedtime, he tells me petulantly, “I’m not closing my eyes, I’m NOT!”

Happy days! Hurry home DH (and by way of a full disclosure, I actually wouldn’t swap roles in a million years.)

PS: If your husband is on the road a lot, do check out this article, in which Gulf ‘Travel Widows’ (including me!) reveal how they cope with the lifestyle.

The predatory woman

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Even if, pre-children, you had a really active social life and danced on tables until the wee hours, after you give birth, the prospect of climbing onto heels to paint the town red is about as appealing as being slapped with a wet fish.

And, with small children around, it can take years to get your social life back on track.

Something I’ve promised myself I’ll do this year is to be more adventurous socially (and I don’t mean I want to start swinging). I plan to spend less time on the sofa in the evenings, so that my husband and children no longer have a better social life than me.

Lil' Miss Temptress: You are not my friend

Lil’ Miss Temptress: You are not my friend

I honestly wouldn’t want my pilot to just sit in his hotel room when he’s on layovers, but then again, I don’t want him to have too good a time without me – especially as women can be predatory creatures.

We were stopped in our tracks the other day while walking out of our hotel by an attractive lady.

I say ‘we’, but it was DH she was talking to.

“Where do I know you from?” she asked him.

He didn’t instantly recognise her. They ran through some places – Tokyo, Paris, Hong Kong – but were still drawing a blank.

“I remember that we got on really well,” she said, flirtily.

“Just don’t tell my wife,” joked DH, putting his arm round me so she’d at least know I was standing right there (he never did work out who she was).

Her head turned towards me, our eyes met.

Hmm, I thought. I don’t like you.

“Do you live here?” (meaning London) she said, by way of a cursory acknowledgement.

“No,” I replied. “I live in Dubai, with my husband.'”

And then, the word ‘obviously‘ just slipped off my tongue.

Touché. Hands off! He’s mine!

What superjumbo pilots really do

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Within the flying community in which we live, we’re used to our menfolk being around at odd hours, or leaving with a suitcase in the middle of the night. We see men in uniform climbing into chauffeur-driven airport cars, having kissed their wives and children goodbye, and returning home several days later, sometimes more.

But, over the past few months, a new trend has emerged that’s actually taking some getting used to. Every day, I see pilots at the gym, pounding the treadmill, pumping the weights. I’m seeing pilots traipsing after toddlers when it’s cool enough outside, and taking gangs of kids to the pool. They’re at school, too, watching little Johnnie perform in puppet shows and plays; at the supermarket in the yogurt aisle; and at DIY stores, sent there by wives who are either clapping their hands with glee that odd jobs are getting done, or [whispers] engineered the whole trip to get him out the house.

Each week, these men try their best to keep up with their wife and children’s jam-packed schedules. I see them removing their Ray-Bans to wipe the sweat from their brow and fiddling with their aviator watches, realising they’ve been on the same time zone for days and that the gentle hum of the kids doesn’t stop.

It’s been lovely having DH around so much while his airplane is fixed, but I think all the wives of the A380 pilots currently working reduced hours would agree there’s a reason why our husbands do what they do. Pilots don’t like being grounded. They’re not the kind of men who can happily sit round the house picking the fluff from their toenails, while any notion that ‘size matters’ is whittled away.

Quite honestly, I’d say our menfolk don’t quite know what’s hit them. And spare a thought for them: Plucked from a life of world travel, luxury hotels, far-flung cities, restaurant meals and telly in bed, they’re suddenly faced with a whirl of six-year-old playdates, 80-kilometre school runs, to-do lists the length of a runway, mindless errands and dental appointments.

You can imagine the shock.

On yelling at your kids

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I know you’re probably getting bored of this theme, but just bear with me.

A friend of mine, also a pilot’s wife – whose DH is regularly away for much longer than mine – mentioned this week that she had, yet again, come to the conclusion that 5-7 days with just her and their young boys was her limit.

“I’m at the end of day 5 today and I’m suddenly the ‘yelling mom’,” she said. “It came out of nowhere and I’m just spent!”

Can't think why I was drawn to this scene, can you?

The conversation, taking place across the globe on Facebook, was joined by several mums, who all said the same thing, along the lines of, “Good grief, love…that’s longer than I can do.”

I honestly think my friend’s a trouper. Don’t you? To save the yelling until day 5 deserves a round of applause and a row of G&Ts, I reckon. I’d buckle far sooner – as I [confession] proved yet again this weekend.

The rising temperature here in Dubai might have had something to do with it (you forget that running around with kids in the heat leaves your nerves not just frayed, but shredded as everyone gets hot and bothered). Plus the fact it was another unstructured weekend alone. Or I might just be low on patience and energy and making excuses.

But, whatever the reason, as the weekend draws to a close in the UAE, I can still hear myself firing off, ‘NOOO!’ ‘STOP!’, ‘W.A.T.C.H. T.H.E. R.O.A.D.’, ‘WAIT’, ‘JUST LISTEN’, ‘I said NO’, ‘GET OUT OF THE DRIVER’s SEAT’. I could go on (and will for the purpose of this blog post).

Love my children so much it hurts, but when DH is away, they love to test their boundaries. I’m hoping mums of small children reading this will identify with the following exchanges – not all yelled, but certainly not whispered – and I won’t get bombarded with comments recommending I attend Effective Parenting classes (or counselling!):

“It’s 6 am in the morning! GO BACK TO BED!” Delivered sternly, not long after the birds started squawking the dawn chorus.

“I SAID open the door carefully!” After squeezing the SUV into a space not much wider, between a new-looking convertible BMW and a Ford Mustang, at the jam-packed supermarket car park.

“But two minutes ago, you DIDN’T WANT a sandwich.” In response to BB’s sudden un-ignorable hunger pangs, developed shortly after leaving Subway, where he’d flatly refused to eat.

Sometimes it feels like they just don't hear me

“Just let mummy talk for two minutes – perleeeez!” On meeting a friend at the JESS school Spring Fair and wanting to chat rather than be dragged off to the bouncy castle (my friend and I had imagined ourselves sitting in the Tea Garden, then browsing the craft stalls together – Ha! What were we thinking?)

“GO AND PLAY – I just paid 100 dirhams to get you in!” Directed at both boys who were still hanging off my t-shirt at the indoor play area I’d brought them to for a break (okay, the break was more for me than them).

“If you didn’t want the yogurt, WHY DID YOU OPEN IT!” After LB helped himself and smeared half of it over the table – squelching dollops onto the floor too.

“DON’T KILL EACH OTHER! JUST DON’T!” On trying to break up a fight, in which LB bit his brother in frustration (and I started tearing my hair out).

“WHAT HAPPENED??” After asking the boys to sit and wait quietly outside while I nipped into a store, then came out to find LB horizontal, red faced and screaming his head off (he’d fallen off the chair).

“NO you can’t have that *insert* doughnut / KitKat / over-priced toy / flashing gadget.” Repeat 20 times.

“Turn the volume DOWN!” After the noise coming from Tom and Jerry on the TV threatened to reach the level at which ear drums implode.

“RIGHT, bed…NOW!” At the end of a long day, after cajoling and jostling them through the bath/book/bed routine. Then quietly, “Oh no, really? You feel sick?”

Is it any wonder I’ve finished the weekend with all this echoing round my head?

Feel free to add your own.